At the back of the hill

Warning: May contain traces of soy, wheat, lecithin and tree nuts. That you are here
strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton.
And that you might like cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Sunday, April 01, 2018


His psychoanalyst once said that he was a bit of an idiot. Unprofessional, of course, but a fairly accurate assessment. As others would have agreed. Until well into his adult years he had believed that his mother was a virgin. In his defense, she had been unmarried at the time, and somehow he hadn't connected any of the dots. But she was, after all, a rabbit.
Rabbits usually ignore social niceties like matrimony, divorce, and the whole dating or adultery scene.

He couldn't explain the egg thing either. Doctor Schmidt theorized that the compulsion to hide eggs was tied to his peculiar sexuality, and that painting them in startling colours was subconsciously an attempt to be found out.
But for two thousand years he hid the eggs.
And remained totally celibate.

Which, for rabbits, is unnatural. Of course, painting eggs is too. But he loved eggs. So elegant, so perfectly shaped, so ... ovoid. Say it slowly: "ooh void". Derived from 'ova', 'ovum'. Oh-voooooom! It even made the mouth egg-shaped when you voiced it.

During more than twenty centuries he had been on a crusade to convince the world of egg-perfection. Nature's most perfect food. Not only aesthetically pleasing, also delicious.

For most of that time no one had known about cholesterol. A minor matter, he was sure, but the medical profession had blown it all out of proportion.

Doctor Schmidt said that the eggs symbolized penises, but how very like a psychoanalyst to see reproductive organs in everything!
Schmidt clearly had problems himself.

For over fifty years he and Schmidt had fought twice a week, in the office and elsewhere. They were almost like an old married couple.
Perhaps some of the immortality had rubbed of.
But he looked ancient and leathery.

Schmidt's mother had, ages ago, angrily demanded that her son should stop seeing that boring neurotic rabbit. But she was dead now, and every week her son still had dinner with his bunny. Eggs. Omelets. Deviled. Scrambled. Curried. Snippets over a plate of asparagus.
Gehakte eier salat. Fried. Egg-bacon sandwich.
Sliced with herring and beets. Plain with a dab of mayonnaise.
Gently poached. Quiche. Shakshouka.

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